To really feel the power of Rick Ross’s music, you’ve got to subscribe to the fantasy. You’ve got to believe that Rozay’s the boss.

On Mastermind’s initial promo single Box Chevy, Ross bragged that he’d bought a female acquaintance her very own salon. Very boss. But after a few poorly-charting singles and that grim UOENO lyric, Ross lost a multi-million dollar endorsement deal with Reebok, and Mastermind’s release was repeatedly delayed. It seemed like even Ross was feeling insecure about his boss status. But Mastermind is primarily a deliciously lavish rap blockbuster that sees Ross reel off boasts about Versace slippers, kilos of coke, armoured vehicles, remarkable fellatio and – throughout the album – the lemon pepper chicken wings at the four Wingstop restaurant franchises he owns. There’s some seriously wobbly religious imagery here, plus a half-baked theme of 90s referentiality (complete arbitrary tributes to Biggie and ODB) that’s too smart for its own good. It’s a flaw which calls to mind a scene in the Coen Brothers movie Barton Fink, in which the protagonist has his Hollywood movie script rejected with the following criticism: “This is a wrestling picture. The audience wants to see action, adventure, wrestling. They don’t want to see a guy wrestling with his soul… Well all right, maybe have some of that for the critics.”

Davy Reed